


Flesh and Blood

by Indybaggins



Series: Flesh and Blood [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Desire, Drug Addict Sherlock, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Lust, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Skin Hunger, Sleeping Together, Vampire Mycroft, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5941042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft becomes a vampire, and Sherlock finds it intriguing, until it becomes all too real. Hunger, addiction, desperation... and giving in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Mycroft)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeccaDG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeccaDG/gifts).



> Another WIP finished! For BeccaDG, just a little late but I hope it still counts, Happy Birthday :D
> 
> Beta and Brit-Picking was by the marvellous Jie_Jie, thank you!
> 
> The story is finished, and I will update on Sundays.

 

 

The most disconcerting change is his eyes. 

They were a muddled milky-white when Mycroft first opened them, but now they’ve cleared to reveal icy blue irises underneath. And yes, he can still see himself in the mirror. 

He doesn’t look _eternal_. In any other person this would be the face of extreme illness. His face is drained of blood. His skin has a bizarre grey tone now. There are spidery veins standing out on his face and neck, all the way down to his chest. 

Mycroft goes back to work the next day, naturally. There are the elections, and then that thing with the dictator. 

His colleagues startle, and glance at him from the corner of their eyes. Some out-right fear him. But none dare to say a word. It is an honour reserved for very few, to _become_. 

In the Diogenes club Mycroft gets shown to a different room, where a chair opens up for him instantly. He receives slow nods. He will do well, Mycroft knows. He will adjust to this - to his altered self, his altered life span - and lead. 

The changes in perception hit him only slowly over the next few days. Mycroft starts to hear heartbeats. First as a distant mumble, and then as clear as if they were thrumming in his own ears. He gets the increasingly intense sense of being conscious of every moment. Of the fabric he is wearing, of the individual hairs on his forearms, of every single one of his toes. Of the fluttering of a bird’s wings, right outside his line of vision. 

Mycroft drinks, and then eats, even though he no longer needs to. He does it because when he presses his lips to something new, when he focuses his perception on lingering in a taste - he is sated for a moment. It drowns out the thrumming of his skin. The whisper of his lungs. The faint ache of his fingertips, begging for something he _can’t quite..._

Coffee works especially well. Dark chocolate, pastries, anything with a distinct, refined taste that remains on his palate for a while. 

Mycroft’s colleagues seem relieved when they catch him with a dark, fine-roasted espresso, some Biscotti, or a rose-water macaroon on his desk. They like to be reassured that his sweet tooth remained, that he’s the same as before. Even Anthea is guilty of it, she goes out of her way to pick him up something special every other day or so. 

Mycroft does nothing to dissuade them of that idea. He always loved the finer pleasures of a good meal, after all. Even if he has a hard time remembering what food was even like, before. He remembers his favourite dishes and restaurants well enough, but not how he enjoyed them when he couldn’t inhale a flavour and feel it transform on his tongue like this. 

Slowly, the desire for food becomes more urgent. 

There is a delivery service. Discreet, naturally. Mycroft lasts for a whole week before ordering a pint of O negative. He pours some of it into a glass, and tries not to look at it, nor smell it while he drinks. 

It only helps somewhat. 

Mycroft does not wish to partake in it any more than this. He does not wish to _feed_. Polite society does not speak of it. Popular culture portrays it as a raw, sexual act. 

He will put it off as long as possible. 

 

-

 

The next time Mycroft visits Sherlock in his small, dingy flat in Montage Street, Mycroft can feel the barrier of another ones home press upon him as soon as he walks into the door, and then up the steps. 

At Sherlock’s door he hesitates, not certain if he is physically able to go in. Instead, he knocks. 

Then again. 

Either Sherlock is feeling particularly magnanimous or he is curious to see why Mycroft is knocking at all, because after a couple of minutes he opens the door. 

Sherlock notices instantly, of course. He stares. 

“I am aware,” Mycroft says. 

Sherlock asks, after a moment, “Why?” 

Mycroft could lie, proclaim the benefit of longevity and increased strength, but he finds himself unwilling to. “I had a small medical issue.” Mycroft prefers not to linger on the memory. A heart-attack at thirty-five, really, he always knew that that much stress would take its toll. 

“You _died_?” Sherlock, to his credit, seems faintly disturbed by the idea. 

“No reason to expect the inheritance yet.” Mycroft smiles. Then sobers a little. _Or ever._ He won’t die at all now. He will outlive Sherlock by dozens, or even hundreds of years. “It was decided that I should be... reinstated.” 

Sherlock gets closer. Mycroft can feel the interest radiate from him. Curiosity, yes, it is a condition not widely publicised, but also... he is trying to determine whether he is still himself. 

Sherlock, after long seconds of scrutiny, says, “Come in.” 

And Mycroft feels a sense of relief as the barrier lifts. He realises that he was highly uncomfortable being even that close to the doorway. Also that he, in some undignified way, did fear Sherlock’s disapproval. His rejection. 

Mycroft walks into Sherlock’s flat. He takes the papers that lie on top of the only near-empty chair, straightens them, and puts them on the next available surface so he can sit down. It’s a mess, as ever.

“Irresistible desire to clean?” Sherlock is following his every move. “Count, or pick up fallen objects?” 

Mycroft tilts his head, and lines the papers up at a ninety degree angle. “Not especially, no.” Although he does severely dislike Sherlock’s approach to housekeeping - he can see rat droppings in the corner. 

Sherlock frowns, and then rolls his eyes. “Of course, you were already OCD, what’s the difference.”

Then looks him over again. “Increased sense of smell?” 

Mycroft nods, stiffly. “I believe so.” Maybe before he would have known that Sherlock has encountered at least one drug dealer in the last twenty-four hours, but not exactly where it is hidden in the flat on smell alone. 

“Touch, as well?” 

“Presumably.” 

“How highly increased?”

Sherlock seems plainly interested now that the first shock has worn off, and Mycroft realises that he has not seen him like this in a very long time. Focused, intrigued, and asking him questions he wishes to know the answer to. Mycroft almost feels glad to be of interest to him for once, watching him dissect this new information at lightning speed, drawing conclusions. “I really don’t know.”

Sherlock lists, “You walk more carefully than before. Since you arrived you have been wringing your hands, holding onto the papers, or tracing the fabric of the chair. You are bothered by the seams of your shirt and socks, and the confines of your shoes. You need constant stimulation?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. And lets go of the chair. 

Sherlock doesn’t mean it like _that_ , Mycroft knows, but it is difficult not to think of the double entendre when he can feel Sherlock’s vibrancy so close. He wasn’t aware he was letting his guard down so much that it is obvious, even just to Sherlock. Mycroft says, awkwardly, “Constant sensory input helps to maintain a certain level of comfort, yes.” 

Sherlock moves on from the subject, thankfully. He locates a small tin box, rummages in it, and comes back holding a necklace. “Give me your hand.”

Experimentation, _oh joy_. Mycroft sighs. “Silver, is it? No holy water handy? Garlic? A crucifix?”

He sticks out his hand anyway, palm raised. Mycroft will allow a little curiosity over his condition, even if it is only to see Sherlock like this. Alive. 

Sherlock takes Mycroft’s hand, and holds it. His fingers feel warm. Sherlock’s not holding on tightly, but yet Mycroft can both feel Sherlock’s heartbeat pulse in his touch, as well as hear it. 

Sherlock puts the necklace in Mycroft’s hand. It feels hot, as if it has been laying in the sun. Mycroft can stand it for a couple of seconds before it starts to heat up, and he pulls his hand away sharply. It leaves a thin red mark on his palm, much like a burn. It stings like it as well, but not for long. 

It heals itself as they watch. 

Well. Mycroft is fascinated despite himself. He had not thought to try these things. 

He briefly spares a thought for the collection of silver tiepins and cufflinks he owns, the pocket watches, his rings. He will put them aside for Sherlock, if he ever wants them. 

Sherlock takes Mycroft’s hand again, and dangles the necklace over it so there is only a small part of it that comes into contact with his skin. Then moves it, gently. It burns a slow, simmering trail down the palm of Mycroft’s hand. Then up to his fingers. 

Mycroft can’t help but notice Sherlock’s movements in stark detail. The flutter of Sherlock’s eyelashes. Sherlock’s breathing. The soft throb of a vein in Sherlock’s neck. Mycroft can smell him clearly, too, something stale. Some laundry detergent, but old sweat and cigarettes beneath. 

Sherlock touches the necklace to every fingertip, feather-light. Mycroft can feel the individual chains as they barely catch his skin. It burns. His hand breaks out in red lines, and near-instantly heal again. Mycroft breathes out shakily, and aims for a note of boredom in his voice, “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish?” 

Mycroft can feel an odd, pleasurable pressure in his jaw. 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft knows he’s reacting to Sherlock’s close presence. He hasn’t been touched since this happened. He hasn’t had to deal with the sensation of another person’s skin pressed to his, the _heat_. He struggles not to pull away, or lean in, or do something. His teeth still feel strange. 

And suddenly, the pressure seems to grow, and his teeth are touching his lips. It takes a moment before Mycroft realises what exactly happened, but when he does, he inhales sharply, and pulls his hand out of Sherlock’s grip immediately. 

Sherlock looks up, annoyed, and then takes a hurried step back, a flicker of fear in his eyes. 

Mycroft stands up, and tries to determine whether he can speak like this. The teeth dig into his lower lip, and they’re sharp. Mycroft’s eyes are drawn to Sherlock’s neck - by association, or because he truly wishes to feed, he does not know. 

“ _Hungry_ , are you?” Sherlock says it scathingly, but there is some panic underneath. 

“I...” Mycroft feels shaken, lightheaded. And strangely draw towards Sherlock’s neck, still. He swallows. “My apologies, I have not... quite managed this yet.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, and is about to speak, but Mycroft nods at him, and exits as swiftly as he can. 

Once outside, Mycroft ducks into the waiting car, not wanting to be spotted in a full-on feeding mode in public. It’s indecent. 

Deeply so.

It takes three uncomfortable hours for his teeth to go back to normal. Afterwards his body is shaky and weak, even after he has drunk two bags of blood.

 

-

 

In the next couple of days, the desire to feed becomes an unavoidable thing. 

It’s more than hunger. It’s a need to _have_. To take. To seduce. 

Mycroft is starting to understand where the myth of them being incredibly sexual beings comes from, because the increased sensation is, frankly, maddening. 

Every time Mycroft undresses himself. Every time he sits down just so. Every time he traces a fingertip lightly over himself - it’s enough to create that familiar spark. It’s as if every pleasant sensation has now become plainly sensual. Mycroft can trace his knee, and break out in goose bumps. Touching the inside of his thighs is enough to make him shudder. Flicking a nipple is as a shot through his chest, licking his lips becomes blatantly erotic, every trace of his skin sensitised to the point of near-pain. 

His penis remains flaccid, but incredibly sensitive. Just trailing a finger over the soft flesh creates waves of sensation flowing hot through his whole body. 

It feels like a betrayal, that it should be this good. 

He never needed it to be. 

Eventually, Mycroft gives in, and runs himself a hot bath with the intention of satisfying at least one desire. He steps into the water, lowers himself into the bath, and lies there. Looking at the ceiling. His cock lies meekly against his thigh. He will not get hard again unless he feeds. 

But still the hunger for this, too, thrums close underneath his skin. 

Mycroft lies back more. His neck feels somewhat uncomfortable leaning on the cold edge of the bathtub. He closes his eyes, and allows himself, with some sense of inevitability, to give into this. 

He touches the soft tip of his finger to the head of his cock underwater. He feels the tiny shift in pressure as he moves his finger away. Then pushes the water back, and touches himself. He drives himself into hyper-sensation by just that. 

Mycroft never found it very fulfilling, sex. The few men and women he has known were always clever, first and foremost. They would tell him their convoluted fantasies, designed to arouse his mind, because that is what they assumed he wanted. 

This is much plainer in its need. 

The water is lapping around him sensually. The bottom of the bathtub feels hard under the bones of his arse. There is steam, making his face feel hot, small drops of condensation rolling off it. But Mycroft only has to visualise running his fingers over someone’s neck... and his nipples tighten, he shivers, and every edge of himself is suddenly starkly defined by want. 

Mycroft scrapes his nail against the side of his leg, then up to his stomach, and down again to the crest between his leg and cock. It’s enough to make his entire body tense in a long, delightful shudder. 

Mycroft thinks of breathing on that neck. Leaning in closer, and closer, until he can feel a heartbeat pulse underneath his lips. 

_The heat of skin. The scent of it. The little joint of neck bone and jaw, pulse quickening visibly underneath._

Mycroft shifts. He bends his legs, so his knees push outside the warm cocoon of water, and he can move his hand easier. Unbidden, he can smell Sherlock again. The memory of Sherlock’s scent lingers in Mycroft’s nose, lives in the back of his throat. _No._

His teeth ache with the thought alone. 

_Delicate, flexible, hot skin._

Mycroft is holding his soft cock in his hand. He is pulling it, breaking the water level, making obscene sloshing sounds. 

_Warm blood, thick and steaming._

Mycroft never thought that that idea would arouse him at all, but it, shamefully, does.

 _Sharp sweat._

Mycroft opens his legs more, and puts one knee on the side of the tub. It stretches his muscles but he does not care, he wants to feel as if he is giving more, as if… 

_Sherlock’s long, pale neck._

_No._ Mycroft tightens his hand punishingly, and goes harder. _Not Sherlock._

_Tasting the warm metal throb of blood. Not just lapping it up, but sucking it wildly, drinking it in, drowning in it…_

Mycroft arches his back, tightens his hand. _Sherlock’s sweet smell, to hold him down and just..._ Mycroft’s breath stills, and he comes, a symphony of shuddering and ecstasy. 

Mycroft does not stay in the bath, after. He immediately rinses off and gets out. Pyjamas, and he goes to bed, pulls some of the covers over his knees, and very carefully does not think about what he just imagined. 

He works, instead. But his body still radiates a sense of hunger. 

This is not over. 

 

-

 

Mycroft is careful not to give into the temptation to go and see Sherlock. It’s obvious that he needs to control this first. He cannot allow himself to... _hunger_ for Sherlock. It’s despicable, for one’s own brother. 

There are some who feed non-sexually with family, usually young ones, but they are few and far apart. It largely is a sexual activity, all hungers fed in one action, in one entwinement of bodies. 

Mycroft will need to find someone who he can share that moment with, and he needs to find them quite urgently. 

He does look for it. He scans the masses. Everyone he comes into close contact with is a plethora of smells, some fairly appetising, but when he comes close enough their skin seems to radiate something acidic. Mycroft’s teeth do not react to anyone he encounters. 

Even when Mycroft is in a meeting for several hours with a perfect view of a dozen necks, he does not once feel inclined to bite anyone. In truth, he is relieved by it - it means it will not interfere with his work quite as much as he had initially feared. 

But it feels uneasy. 

Mycroft knows the sheer biology here is undeniable: some will attract him and some will not. Still, it seems implausible that there would be only one for him. 

Although, perhaps not. 

He did always care only for Sherlock. 

 

-

 

Once weeks have gone by with growing hunger and no one he wishes to sate it with, Mycroft starts to accept it as a truth. 

He shall not feed, then. Keep it to himself. He will survive on bagged blood for a while, and when he eventually gets to a point where it is unmanageable, inevitably his body will give in, and want to feed from someone else - it must. 

That seems like a perfectly maintainable solution, until the moment Sherlock is at Mycroft’s door. 

Sherlock uses his key to let himself in, and Mycroft can feel a surge of panic at hearing it. Sherlock’s heartbeat underlies his approach like a drum. 

As soon as Mycroft sees Sherlock appear in his doorway, he says, “You should not be here.” 

Sherlock frowns. “Why not?”

“You are very well aware of why not.” 

Sherlock eyes him. “You still haven’t fed on anyone?”

That is private information, highly so. But Mycroft sees little sense in not admitting it, “No, I have not.” And he will not, Mycroft reminds himself. 

Sherlock walks close.

Close enough that he has to look up at him, and Mycroft leans back in his chair, cautiously. He prepared for some sort of sting, or joke, of a fight, even. But then, as he sees Sherlock’s expression change, Mycroft asks, “Sherlock? What’s wrong?” 

Sherlock slowly reaches out. Mycroft looks at his hand, but he’s not certain what Sherlock wants. Sherlock doesn’t take Mycroft’s hand, exactly, but wanders his fingers over it. It’s pleasurable, the touch of his fingers is warm and comfortable. Mycroft feels mostly perplexed at Sherlock touching him at all. 

But... Sherlock’s eyes are large, and his pupils dilated. 

Mycroft sighs. He should have known. “What did you take?” 

Sherlock slowly frowns, and shakes his head. “I didn’t take anything.” Then he seems confused as to whether he did. “I...” He stops, and licks his lips.

Mycroft knows Sherlock well, of course, every detail of his face, every tell. But before, he never would have known that Sherlock’s heartbeat is bouncing in his throat. That just looking at his neck feels like pure sin. Mycroft’s holding himself perfectly still, and tries to gather the will to look away. 

Sherlock’s becoming blurry now, nothing but skin and the vague hue of his eyes. And the thump-thump of his heart. He smells uncannily good. Mycroft licks his teeth, and finds them, against his will, extending again. The dull pressure is a relief of sorts. 

Sherlock has noticed, of course. Sherlock leans over him, and touches his fingertips to Mycroft’s mouth. 

Mycroft shivers, for a long moment transfixed by the power of it, this. 

Then pulls away. 

Mycroft leans back stiffly in his seat, and tries to pull his mind together. To scold Sherlock. “Sherlock, I can understand that you are curious but this is dangerous, I cannot....” _control myself._ Mycroft swallows. “Please leave now.” 

Sherlock’s mouth opens as he breathes out, showing a bit of tongue. “No, I want to.” Sherlock smiles, slowly, his eyes a little wild. Then says, “Feed on me.” 

_What?_ Mycroft screeches the heavy chair back, hard. “No, absolutely not.” He gets up in a rush of shame. “Sherlock, for once in your life, just...” Mycroft’s heart is thumping wildly in surprise, in anger, in temptation. “...be sensible! You are my brother, I cannot _feed_ on you!” 

Mycroft breathes out, and lets the moment settle between them. Calms himself. There is no reason to panic over this. 

Mycroft, trying to find some sense of normality, says, “If you are that interested you might ask someone else.” 

And then he regrets saying it instantly, because the thought of Sherlock with anyone but himself feels rudely painful. Mycroft instantly feels a deep urge to rip the throat out of anyone who tries. But it is the truth. Mycroft imagines that there are many who would love to sink their teeth into Sherlock. To suck, lightly, at first, then... 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Then says, “You _are_ hungry, so...” 

Mycroft is loathe to say it, but he needs to. “It’s a sexual act, Sherlock.” Surely if Sherlock understands that much, then he will see that this is not possible between them. 

“Can’t you just feed? Leave the rest?” 

Mycroft has been wondering that himself, but, would he have enough control? He cannot be sure. And he will not play with it. “I will not discuss this any further.” 

Sherlock looks away. “Fine.”

The movement makes the column of his neck stand out beautifully. The sharp line. The pale skin. Mycroft forces himself to pull his eyes away. 

But Sherlock does not leave. Instead he says, his voice a deep rumble, “I want to sleep here tonight.” 

Mycroft sighs. Sherlock’s high, he can tell. “Then stay, you know you’re welcome to.” 

Sherlock seems briefly surprised that he gave in, and then smiles. 

Mycroft is not thinking much beyond ‘good’. That this is what it should be. He feels some instinct, not new, but magnified, telling him to keep Sherlock close. If he cannot feed, at least keep Sherlock where he can smell him, where Sherlock’s skin is within reach.

Sherlock follows him as he turns off the light, and walks towards the stairs. 

Mycroft selects a pair of pyjamas, and takes them into the bathroom with him to get changed there. He does briefly wonder at how he did not intend to be in a room alone with Sherlock at all, and now somehow he agreed to Sherlock staying the night. But it is only vague. It feels right. Sherlock _should_ be here. 

Sherlock is lying under the sheets of Mycroft’s bed when he comes back. Mycroft is aware, in the back of his mind, that this is not what he intended. That there is a guestroom. That he should say no to this. 

But it is not the first time Sherlock has slept in his bed. Although it has been at least fifteen years, Mycroft finds that he wants him to start doing it again. To stay close. So he gets into the bed, lies down, and turns the bedside light off. 

The bed is large. Mycroft can sense Sherlock with every breath he takes. 

Sherlock turns onto his side, and shifts until his back is close. Mycroft remembers sleeping just like this when Sherlock was a child. The smell of his hair. The thin bulk of his shoulders. Mycroft extends his arm, and Sherlock settles against his chest.

Mycroft’s fingers faintly touch Sherlock’s breastbone on every inhale. He can smell his toothpaste. 

Mycroft is hungry, a dull throbbing now, but it is overshadowed by the enormous awareness of skin, of touch, nearby. His entire being is telling him that this is what he needs. Sherlock in his arms. 

Mycroft relaxes against Sherlock’s back with the feeling as if he is sinking into a lover. Mycroft feels the smooth line of Sherlock’s back press against the row of buttons on his chest. The tip of Mycroft’s nose brushes Sherlock’s cheek, and Mycroft can hear his heartbeat, loud and clear. Feel Sherlock’s body heat burn between them. 

He will keep Sherlock safe, Mycroft thinks. Use his strength and influence and long life to always, always keep Sherlock from harm. No one will touch him. Sherlock will be his, his _alone_. 

Mycroft tighten his grip. In response, Sherlock searches for Mycroft’s hand, and puts it on his chest, right on the thudding of his heart. His skin is hot, and clammy. 

Sherlock’s nipple hardens under Mycroft’s touch, and Mycroft thinks, unbidden, _the things I could make you feel..._

Mycroft’s arousal is an all-encompassing, full-body thing. He cannot recall how he ended up here, with Sherlock in his bed. How this is a reality. But at the same time he is feverishly categorising every single sensation. 

Mycroft knows that Sherlock has an erection. He can smell it. Mycroft can hear the rush of Sherlock’s heartbeat like being near a waterfall. Nearly taste the slight sweat of his skin. It is a physical pull to get nearer to him.

Sherlock shift in his grip, so his hips drag against the sheet. Mycroft can feel the slight movements as Sherlock trails his hand down.  
He is touching himself, Mycroft realises. And the stab of deep-seated, raw heat of it, is enough to make him startle. “Sherlock!” 

“Hmmm...” Sherlock sounds drugged. Actually drugged. 

“What are you _doing_?” Mycroft struggles from under the covers, and sits up. 

“I want you…” Sherlock says it as if in a haze, still moving his hand, getting himself off. 

Mycroft’s teeth are extended, still. Did they ever go down? What is happening? Mycroft forces himself to get away from the bed, although it near-physically hurts to do so. Sherlock is moaning now, at him, and Mycroft wants him, too. He needs him, to possess him, to bite and take and _own_.

Instead, Mycroft pulls himself away. He reaches the door, and gets out. He struggles down the stairs, the presence of Sherlock as a great pull behind him, but he makes it, and veers off, into his library. Mycroft locks the door. Puts the key on the other side of the room, and sits down, feeling half-wild. Unsure of himself, of what he could do, if he were to go back. 

What he would stop at doing. 

Mycroft does not move from his chair. Not once, for the entire long, cold night. 

Mycroft can hear his front door slam shut around eight in the morning, and the sense of Sherlock, still so close by, thrilling him, aching, slowly leaves. Mycroft lies back, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back for that long. 

A vampire’s desire has an overwhelming trance-like effect. Mycroft had read it, but he had never truly understood it. What it would mean, to have his near-uncontrollable need be an order to others. 

He must never, ever be alone with Sherlock again.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock wakes up in Mycroft’s bed. Alone, and with a throbbing headache. There is come dried to his pubes and stomach, and all over the sheets. 

He immediately touches his neck and traces the skin, but there’s nothing there. 

No bite marks. 

He remembers coming here, and asking to be fed on. Lying down on the bed. Mycroft was here at one point, too, Sherlock remembers that much. He feels a hint of shame, quickly suppressed, but... did Mycroft see him get off? 

Sherlock gets up, finds his trousers, and checks the piece of paper in his pocket. The list - always there. It’s blank. 

He dresses, and gets out. He thinks it over some more, but by night, the mystery isn’t enough to occupy him anymore, and he buys some coke. Mycroft will forgive him, whatever it was. He usually does. 

Sherlock snorts the coke, and half-expects Mycroft to come for him. To suddenly appear like some avenging angel. To tut and shake his head, the way he always does. Or maybe, now, to threaten. 

Mycroft doesn’t appear at all. 

The next week Sherlock demonstratively takes amphetamines in front of a camera at Marylebone tube station, and chases them down with a bottle of whisky. A couple of hours later he’s throwing up on his shoes in an alley on the other side of London, not sure how he got there. 

But nothing from Mycroft. 

After that, Sherlock gives in, and texts him. “I don’t remember what I did. SH” 

He doesn’t specify when, but it doesn’t matter, Sherlock is sure that Mycroft will jump at the chance to tell him. That now he’ll come and inform him in great detail how much of a disappointment Sherlock is, how he’s wasting his life, how he’s nothing but trouble to Mycroft. 

Instead, Mycroft replies, “Do not concern yourself with it. MH”

Sherlock waits for more, but it doesn’t appear. Mycroft does not visit, or comment, or interfere, for a whole month after that. 

Sherlock is glad to be rid of him. 

Mycroft doesn’t show up, not even when Sherlock lies to the police to be allowed onto a murder scene, and tells them who did it within five minutes of arriving. And then spends two days in jail being interrogated because those idiots assume that _he_ did it. 

As soon as he gets out, Sherlock gets high again. The good stuff - heroin this time - and loses three full days in a haze of celebratory drugs (he was right, he did find the killer). But when he comes down again, there’s still nothing. 

Eventually, Sherlock swings by Mycroft’s office, or one of them, anyway. He simply walks in. Then gets escorted out by three armed guards. 

Sherlock tries to go to Mycroft’s house that night, but his key doesn’t work anymore. The lock has been replaced by an electronic system that Sherlock can’t break into. No amount of knocking does it, either. 

This has never happened. Mycroft has never, ever avoided him. 

It’s been nearly two months, and for the first time Sherlock feels some worry at what exactly it was that he did. That _they_ did? Sherlock texts, “Look, whatever it was, I was high, or I don’t know, but forget it? SH” 

After another hour of nothing, he sends, “I’m sorry. SH” 

There’s no reply.

 

-

 

When two days later Sherlock is walking by Bayswater and there’s suddenly a black car trailing him, he’s not exactly relieved, but it’s close. 

It slows down, and Sherlock doesn’t bother with the pretence, he gets in. It’s only the assistant, Anthea, and Sherlock doesn’t deign to talk to her, although he can deduce from her fingernails and the state of her skirt that she’s stressed. 

They drive for nearly half an hour, and exit at some sort of secured building Sherlock’s never been before. Anthea escorts him through a long corridor to a room, and then closes the door behind him. 

It’s a large, empty space, split in two by a large glass window. There’s a chair in front of it on this side, and one on the other. It looks like an interrogation room, or a treatment centre, so maybe that’s it then. Maybe Mycroft left Sherlock alone so he could finally go through on his threat to institutionalise him. Sherlock looks around, ready to break the glass, to lie, or force his way out… when the door on the other side of the glass opens, and someone walks in. 

Mycroft. Barely. There are deep lines in his deadly pale face. His cheeks are hollow. His suit is hanging off him. His hands have a skeleton-like quality, and he is leaning on his umbrella more for stability than for style.

Mycroft stands there, completely still, and takes in his reaction.

Then nods towards the chair, and moves, slowly. He seems old, much older than he really is, as he lowers himself down. 

Sherlock walks the two steps to his own chair, and sits. There are some holes in the glass, enough so that they might talk. 

Mycroft swallows dryly, and his mouth moves. He opens his lips a little, and solemnly lets his teeth grow to the large, sharp things Sherlock has seen before. Mycroft looks away, seemingly embarrassed by it. Then gathers his voice, it sounds exactly like him, still, “I apologise for the theatrics.” 

Mycroft’s face is actually grey now, up close. He looks near death - Sherlock suppresses a shudder. “You’re ill. Severely.” Sherlock does not need to deduce much, it’s clear all over Mycroft’s face, and his body. 

Mycroft attempts a weak smile. “I already died, Sherlock. Everything more has been... borrowed time.” 

He’s lying. Vampires live forever, or close to it, as long as they don’t get killed. They are near-immortal. But this doesn’t look anything like the pale, aristocratic power that Sherlock has always seen on them. The cause is obvious, although it’s hard to believe, “You still haven’t fed?”

“No, I have not.” Mycroft says it as if it is an unfortunate event instead of a death sentence.

“Why?” Sherlock can’t see why Mycroft wouldn’t - it’s supposed to be better than sex. Better than drugs, too. 

Mycroft sighs. “Vampire physiology is complicated, there are only certain…” he hesitates, “possible subjects.” 

“Yes, I’m one of them.” Clearly. 

Mycroft seems briefly uncomfortable. “Indeed.”

Hence the precautions, Mycroft apparently thought that he wouldn’t be able to hold back from attacking him. Sherlock can see the mild tremors in Mycroft’s hands, but his frailness is deceptive, Sherlock thinks. Mycroft still could feed. But why didn’t he when he had the chance? Did Mycroft bring him here to show him how bad it is? To convince him that he really needs it this time? He shouldn’t have bothered, Sherlock’s been curious for years about being fed on, it’s a famously great rush. A popular myth among drug users as well. 

Sherlock says, already decided, “Fine, you can feed on me.” Right now, if Mycroft wants to. 

Mycroft smiles, a sad breath of a smile. “No, Sherlock.” He eyes him. “You have to understand, I cannot guarantee that I would not…” he resigns himself to say it, “force you into more.” He looks at him, seriously. “And you wouldn’t be able to say no.”

“And what, you’d rather die?” Sherlock can hardly believe him. What sort of logic is that? Then again, it’s Mycroft. 

Mycroft nods. “If need be.” 

It’s ridiculous. “Don’t be an idiot, you need it. _Obviously._ ” Mycroft can’t claim not to, he looks like some sort of hunger strike victim. Or, ironically, a heroin addict. 

Mycroft smiles. “Yes... It’s outrageous what monstrosities we commit for survival, isn’t it?” He shakes his head. “I will not.”

Sherlock can feel himself get angry. “Then why even show me?” Mycroft came here to show him how very much he’s suffering? How principled and great he is, to the very end? How well _he_ can resist? 

Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock, I did not bring you here to argue.” He looks at him with fondness heavy in his eyes. “I merely wished to say goodbye.” 

Sherlock refuses to look at it any longer. “No.”

“No?” Mycroft asks, looking confused. 

“You need to feed, like _a good little vampire_.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I won’t, Sherlock.” 

“You’ll live forever.” Sherlock didn’t for one moment think that Mycroft would turn that down. He thought that he’d revel in this, in being more than him. Invincible, now. 

“I could, yes. But I will not sacrifice you to do so.” 

He sounds so accepting. So weak and _idiotic_. “Oh, stop it, _Mycroft_.” Sherlock gets up. He can decide what he wants to sacrifice and what he doesn’t. “You don’t have to protect me.” 

“Never the less, I will always be your brother.” Mycroft seems to wallow in his own superiority, as ever. He _loves_ saying that, doesn’t he? To suffer for the greater good.

Sherlock throws the door shut behind him. 

 

-

 

Sherlock is livid the whole way back. Why would Mycroft not just do it? Because he needs to take some of his blood, which, oh, Sherlock is _offering_ to give? 

So what if there’s sex involved, Sherlock’s done worse for a hit. 

He thinks about telling that to Mycroft, throwing _that_ in his face. If only Mycroft hadn’t cut him off from the money, Sherlock wouldn’t have to blow dealers for coke. Mycroft’s already done that to him, how different would it be if he fucks him himself?

But Sherlock won’t say that. He never will. 

Sherlock does make a stop at his dealer-of-the-week, and picks up a bag of crack. Some pills, too. He takes them home, lines them up as a neat little row of escape. Takes a handful, and doesn’t write it down anywhere, for once sure that Mycroft won’t read it. That he won’t come and get him now. 

Mycroft can barely walk. 

Sherlock’s angry even underneath the hollow high that’s building already. He thinks, idly, that maybe Mycroft will show up. Maybe they’ll go out together, then. But no, this can’t be it. It can’t. 

Sherlock takes his phone, and dials it, feeling far away. As if he’s looking at this through a tunnel. When Mycroft answers, he says, “Four times.”

Mycroft sounds confused. “Four times...?”

“Four times I’ve overdosed. You watched me nearly die.” Sherlock eyes the crack. No need to save it for later, might as well do it now. 

Mycroft breathes out in a rush, crackling the line. “Sherlock…”

“How was that for you?” Sherlock wants to spit it in his face.

He ends the call, throws his phone away, and opens a new syringe. Smashes the crack into powder, and uses vinegar to dilute it. His hands shake as he prepares it, and he loses some, it drips off the table. It doesn’t matter. Sherlock finds a vein, right elbow, it’s a bit unwieldy but the left has collapsed, and injects himself. 

It’s bliss. 

He comes back from his high less than an hour later, from thoughts of being fed on, being pierced and sucked and taken, to eight missed calls from Mycroft. And a text that says, “I can’t promise your safety. MH” 

Sherlock nearly laughs. 

He texts back. “When? SH” 

 

-

 

Sherlock goes to Mycroft’s house. He tries to crack the code, but in the middle of his sixth try, the door clicks open. Electronic system rigged up to a camera. Clever. 

Sherlock walks inside, feeling a rush of expectation. The greatest high, they say. The most dangerous one, too. 

Mycroft is in his library, sitting in an armchair by the fire, and his eyes glimmer as he walks in. “Sherlock.” 

He makes an impressive shadow. Nearly inhuman. 

But Sherlock doesn’t fear him, he never has. Not even when Mycroft continues to look, and his teeth press over his lips again. Sherlock likes watching it, seeing him taken over by a need like that. Always perfect Mycroft, always stronger and smarter, more powerful and more well-adjusted, the grand image to live up to. Look at him now. Embarrassed over wanting to suck his blood. Need personified. 

Sherlock is going to _enjoy_ this. He smiles. “Hungry?”

It’s enough to make Mycroft flinch. 

Sherlock doesn’t care. He takes his jacket off, and drapes it over a chair. Mycroft leans forward. Sherlock undoes the buttons of his shirt, bares his neck, and Mycroft digs his nails into his chair’s arms. 

But he doesn’t get up. He’s still sitting there, staring at him. Sherlock wonders if he has to go over there and pull him up, if he’s that weak. 

Mycroft does move, after a long moment. Pushes himself out of his chair as if he’s a hundred years old. 

Sherlock, for the first time, wonders if it hurts, this. What Mycroft did to himself. Mycroft walks close, and Sherlock can see the veins in his sunken face. The bumps on his skin standing out. He looks horrid. 

Mycroft hesitates, and then reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a small handgun. He hands it to him. It’s heavy, and warm. “If it gets out of control.”

“No wooden stake?” Sherlock tries to say it with a laugh. 

“I thought that that would be less practical, you might not have the force required.” Mycroft eyes him seriously. “If I… I am uncertain whether it will kill me, but you have my permission to shoot me, Sherlock.” He swallows. “In fact, I want you to.” 

Sherlock places the gun right on Mycroft’s ribs, where his heart should be, and holds it there. He won’t shoot. Even if Mycroft does kill him. But Sherlock holds the gun, and cocks it. 

Mycroft slowly moves closer until they’re standing chest to chest. Then, with a last look, leans over him. 

Sherlock feels a sharp spike of tension.

There’s the hesitant rasp of Mycroft’s teeth to his neck. It nearly tickles. He’s trying to aim it right. Sherlock’s about to say, ‘Want me to show you where my best veins are?’ when Mycroft places his teeth right on his carotid, and Sherlock holds as still as he can. 

Mycroft bites down. 

It hurts, immediate and piercing, like a stab wound. Sherlock very nearly throws him off in reflex, but he can’t, he realises, Mycroft is _in_ him, his mouth is on his neck and his teeth are inside of him. 

And then it hits him. 

It’s as sudden as heroin. It makes Sherlock feel as if his whole body moves away from the ground, and he’s floating. Seeing lights. 

Sherlock is still aware that he’s standing up, he can feel Mycroft’s hands, one on his shoulder and one on his neck, holding him in a near-embrace. He can feel the piercing, intrusive feeling of the long teeth sticking into his neck. Sherlock can feel his heart thudding hard, pumping blood. Hear the decadent drinking sounds Mycroft’s making, wet swallows. He can feel dizziness pull on him, but he doesn’t care. He’s shocked with pleasure. Thrilled with it. 

Sherlock’s fingers feel cold, and his grip on the gun loosens. He can feel a hot nausea rising in the back of his throat. He can’t see anymore. The gun slips from his grip, between them, and falls to the ground with a thud that Sherlock doesn’t hear because his ears are ringing, a high, whining sound. 

Sherlock knows that this is how blood loss feels, but he doesn’t mind. His whole body sings. His head feels eerie and light. 

Even if Sherlock would want to, he could never stop Mycroft. He’s silent, trapped in this. He doesn’t want to ever stop. 

It goes on for minutes, and Sherlock leans heavier and heavier on Mycroft. Mycroft is holding him up, and right when Sherlock thinks that he will fall anyway, that his mind will give into the blackness and he will pass out, Mycroft pulls his teeth out. He’s breathing hard, coughing, sputtering blood all over Sherlock’s cheek and neck. 

Mycroft leans in again and licks his skin, fast, desperate, he’s trying to stop the bleeding, and Sherlock realises that he’s hard. His cock feels huge and urgent in between his legs, despite the dizziness. He can feel warm blood, drip down his neck, the wet licks of Mycroft’s tongue, but he’s too weak to care. 

Sherlock struggles to speak, says, very faint, “Might pass out.” Or throw up. Or spontaneously orgasm, it’s somewhere between the three right now. 

Mycroft hears, because after a couple more licks, he carefully lowers him down to the ground. Sherlock sinks down there like a doll, his arms and legs flopping down. There’s sweat pearled on Sherlock’s upper lip, and sticking his shirt to his back. He swallows back nausea. His cock throbs again, urgently.

Mycroft’s hard, too - Sherlock can see it clearly. There is blood splattered and smeared all over Mycroft’s chin and cheeks, his teeth are stained with it. 

Mycroft is looking at him with a near-painful desire, as if he can’t bear not to touch him. Sherlock knows what he feels. He wants it. He needs it. Mycroft’s hand, there. To pull him down, to rut, to be together.

But Mycroft, after a long moment, makes a faint sound of pain, and turns away. Leaves, fast. 

Sherlock can barely move, but he manages to lift a hand, and touch between his legs. He bucks at the pressure. He wants to open his trousers, but he’s not coordinated enough, and it doesn’t matter. All he needs is the pressure. Sherlock squeezes himself, and he comes, his whole body shaking deeply with an intense high, pinpricks of light exploding under his eyelids.

Then passes out. 

The air feels cool on his heated cheeks. The floor is cold under his back. He blinks his eyes open a while later, still lying on the ground. 

Slowly, Sherlock lifts an awkward, nearly numb arm to touch the place where Mycroft bit him. It hurts. The wound pulses. It feels sticky to touch, and his fingers come away with a brown smear of dried blood. Sherlock drops his arm. 

Breathes. 

He can smell the metal scent of his own blood in the air.

Sherlock has no idea how much he lost. Mycroft easily could have killed him. Sherlock smiles - he could have died. And instead he rushed and soared and came. 

He’s slowly starting to feel better. The dizziness recedes a bit. 

Eventually, Mycroft comes back. He lingers somewhere by the door, and says, “Sherlock?” 

“Alive.” Mycroft’s legs come in sight, and then the rest of him. He has cleaned himself up. No more blood on his face, although there are dark spots all over his waistcoat. He looks like he killed someone. 

Not just his suit, his expression. 

And… his fly is done back up, but there are tell-tale dark spot next to the buttons. Sherlock slowly, weakly, sits up, and waits for the spinning to stop. He glances at Mycroft. “Missed a spot.” 

It could mean the blood, as well, but Mycroft flushes. He can do that again, flush. Actually, he looks better. He’s still deadly skinny, but his skin is smoother, his lips red. He looks plainly attractive, actually. Sherlock feels a faint twitch of his cock, a reminder of what it just did. 

Mycroft’s drowning in guilt, it’s plain on his face. “Sherlock... my deepest apologies.”

He doesn’t say whether it’s for the blood, or for nearly getting him off. 

Sherlock does his best to smile cockily, even though his face feels numb and he’s not sure what he’s doing. “One of the best orgasms I’ve ever had.” He eyes Mycroft. “How about you?”

Mycroft doesn’t reply, but he does kneel down next to him, and asks, “How do you feel?” 

Sherlock tries to take stock of his body, but it’s hard. He mainly feels shaky, like he’s floating, still. 

“I don’t know how much blood you lost, if you want to go the hospital I will take you.” 

Sherlock ignores it. He doesn’t feel too bad, really. He tries to stand up, and Mycroft helps, he pulls him up, and then steadies him. Sherlock pushes Mycroft’s hand away. “I’m fine.” He’s fairly sure he can walk. As soon as the dizziness recedes. “Going home.” 

Mycroft’s mouth opens to protest, but he stops himself, and lets him go. “Of course.” 

Sherlock doesn’t bother with buttoning his shirt again, but he takes his jacket and closes that. Then looks back at Mycroft, and catches the deep guilt in his eyes. His face. “You look better.”

Mycroft hesitates. “I am, I believe.” 

Sherlock nods, and turns around. Time to go then. 

As he walks out, Mycroft says, “Sherlock... thank you.” 

Sherlock doesn’t look back. 

 

-

 

He goes home, undresses, and lies on his bed. It was raw. Dangerous. Like getting stabbed and nearly dying, like getting fucked brilliantly, like solving a case, all of it in one. 

It _is_ a great rush. 

When Sherlock gets up in the morning he’s still faint, until he remembers to eat something. He scours the cupboards. There’s not a lot of food in his flat, but some tinned soup. Baked beans. He heats one, eats it, and then the other. 

The shirt from last night is ruined. Dark, dried drops and smears of blood. Sherlock saves it for experiments, might be interesting to analyse the blood splatter. 

He catches a glimpse of his wild hair in the mirror, and stops to look at himself. He looks pale. Dark circles around his eyes he’s not sure are from the blood loss. Sherlock turns his neck, and inspects the damage. It’s a large bruise, darkest around the two small spots that are closed wounds, and feathering over his vein in a mottled pattern. He presses his fingers on it. 

He wants to do it again. 

The possibility stretches at the edges of his thoughts all day. Sherlock has some pills he could take to distract him, but he doesn’t. He even goes shopping, and puts a bunch of tinned food as well as fruit and some multivitamins into his trolley. He eats some peaches straight from the tin as he searches the internet for information on the condition, ready to dazzle Mycroft with facts, if needed. To prove that he knows what he’s saying. 

And then Sherlock goes to pay Mycroft a visit at work. 

He consciously doesn’t cover up the bite mark, lets everyone he meets in the hallway see. Oh yes. This time he isn’t apprehended, and when he walks in, Mycroft immediately puts his file down. “Sherlock! Are you all right?” 

“Fine.” Sherlock grins. “Been eating my five a day, you should be proud.” Mycroft looks less healthy than as he did right after he fed, but he doesn’t quite seem as bad as before, either. “Have you?” 

Mycroft frowns. “What do you mean?” 

It’s simple. “Want to do it again tonight?” 

Mycroft seems slightly embarrassed. “No, Sherlock…” 

“Why not?” Because that’s the thing, here. Once isn’t going to cut it, is it? Mycroft needs to eat. Often. 

Mycroft grapples for words. Then settles on, “It is much too soon, for one thing.” 

Sherlock shrugs. He quotes, “Young and healthy donors can be fed upon regularly without negative long-time effects.” 

“You’re a drug addict...”

“User.”

“...I believe that ‘young and healthy’ is a bit of a stretch.” Mycroft looks him over, and seems a bit curious. “You did not find the experience too traumatising then?” 

No. And what does it matter. Sherlock offers, “Better rush than heroin.”

Mycroft’s face pulls. 

But then his mouth opens as he breathes in, and his teeth grow in response, large and threatening. Mycroft sighs, annoyed at himself. “I’m sorry.” 

Sherlock wonders if it’s his scent that does it. “You need some more. I want some more. Win-win, brother dear.” Trust Mycroft to deny to himself that he’s a vampire. “You know it’s true.” 

Mycroft ignores it, and says, “You need to take care of yourself, Sherlock, you lost a significant amount of blood.”

Sherlock doesn’t bother answering that. Just turns around. As soon as Mycroft gets hungry enough, he’ll feed again. No reason to argue about it. 

It’ll happen. 

 

\- 

 

It’s pure coincidence that Sherlock doesn’t use for the next couple of days.

He’s busy. And yes, he does want to, but he doesn’t want to pass out in the middle of being fed on, either. He’s thinking he’ll do it right after, lengthen the high. Sounds great. 

When Sherlock’s back at Mycroft’s door exactly a week after the first time, it opens for him. 

Sherlock walks into the library again, and there is Mycroft, putting aside a book. “Sherlock...” He looks pale, not nearly as desperate.

Sherlock tries to smile. “Yes?”

As Mycroft stands up, and comes closer, his teeth extend already. Hah. Sherlock feels a hit of want just looking at them. 

Mycroft looks him over, and says, “You haven’t used recently.” 

Can he deduce that? Probably, Sherlock will have to be more careful when lying to him now. Sherlock says, “Can’t have big brother getting high from my blood now, can we?” 

Mycroft frowns. “That is... surprisingly considerate of you.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. Instead he takes off his coat, jacket, throws it over the sofa, and then unbuttons his shirt. He showered for this. He’s not sure if he got the scent of cigarettes out of his hair, and he didn’t manage to cover up the track marks, of course, some are mildly infected and pulsing in the bends of his arms. But Sherlock pulls his shirt out of his trousers, takes it off, and throws it aside. Mycroft’s eyes widen at that, briefly skip over his naked chest.

Sherlock says, “You ruined the last one.” He doesn’t care about the shirt, but the more guilt Mycroft feels the easier he is to manipulate into doing what he wants him to do. 

Mycroft swallows. 

Then says, “Perhaps I should…” He motions, “stand behind you? It might be less…” he obviously seems uncomfortable with the word, “intimate.” 

Sherlock shrugs. He doesn’t care about how, just that he gets it. “Fine.” 

Mycroft steps behind him, and places a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock tenses at the touch. 

Mycroft feels it, because he says, “You are certain?” 

“Yes.” 

Mycroft leans over Sherlock’s back, his breath a warm whisper on his naked skin. Sherlock breaks out in goose bumps. _Yes, do it, please._

Mycroft is slow about it again, he moves to the other side from last time. Seems to linger over his skin. Smell him. And then there are his teeth, the sharp edge of them catching his neck. Sherlock sucks in a breath. 

Mycroft bites down, hard. 

Sherlock was expecting the pain this time, but it’s still a shock. For a moment his body feels nothing but pure adrenalin. And then the sucking starts, and it rushes through him, the high. Sherlock can hear his own voice moan, “Ghhh!” 

Mycroft makes no impression of having heard. 

Sherlock lets himself lean back to Mycroft’s chest. He can feel every single suck of Mycroft’s mouth. It’s like a pulse, like a thrust, as if he’s being fucked there, invaded, and taken. Sherlock lets it overwhelm his mind, pull his whole self into a deep need. 

He can feel his desire clearer this time. His cock aches. There are black and white spots dancing in front of his eyes, he can’t tell whether they’re open or not, there is no difference. Sherlock’s heard of having sex while oxygen deprived, and maybe this is like it, getting hard while bleeding out rapidly. While his heart pumps uselessly, and Mycroft takes every desperate burst of blood throbbing out of his vein. Sherlock moans. 

Mycroft, in reply, sucks harder, and Sherlock can see a supernova as his whole body shivers and _reaches_. 

When Mycroft pulls his teeth out, Sherlock feels a moment of disappointment. But then Mycroft licks his neck again, blood getting everywhere, and Sherlock can move, now, somewhat. He immediately tries to touch himself. 

Mycroft is still licking his neck as Sherlock opens his trousers and wrestles his hand into his pants. He squeezes his cock, the sensation enough to make something throb through him, “Aaah!” 

Mycroft’s cock brushes Sherlock’s back, _he’s hard, too_. Sherlock moves his arse back into it, rubs himself there, pushes into his hand, thundering towards an explosive orgasm.

Mycroft’s breath stutters, he doesn’t reply, just holds him, but it’s enough. Sherlock can’t stop himself from reaching it, he comes in warm bursts over his hand, _spectacularly_. 

Sherlock is still breathing hard when Mycroft half-pulls, half-carries him to the sofa. Sherlock falls back on it, with come all over his hand, his trousers opened, his still mostly-hard cock showing. And Mycroft stares as if he can’t pull his eyes away. As if he’s still hungry. He’s flushed. There’s blood all over his face, it’s gruesome, it’s fascinating. He looks like he’s just had sex, too. Like they’ve been _fucking_. 

Sherlock smiles, and says, weakly, “Come on, you want to....” _Give in for once, why don’t you._

Mycroft looks a second away from jumping on top of him and taking him, and Sherlock wants him to, it’s fine, he can do it...

But Mycroft abruptly pulls away. He stumbles to the hallway, and Sherlock’s pretty sure that he doesn’t make it a step further before he gets his cock out, and gets off. Sherlock listens for it, but he can’t tell over the whine in his ears, so he closes his eyes, and gives into the swirling drowsiness. 

He isn’t sure if he passes out. 

Sherlock pulls himself back into the moment when he feels the cushions dip. Mycroft is there, sitting down carefully, and holding a medical kit. “Are you all right?” 

“Hm.” 

Mycroft pours some antiseptic on cotton wool, and presses it to Sherlock’s neck. It feels strangely cold and clinical. 

Sherlock leans into his touch. “Do it again next week.” 

Mycroft’s hand stills for a moment. And then goes on. 

He doesn’t say no.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft nearly starved to death. 

He is still thinner than he has ever been in his life. The outline of his ribs is visible through his shirt. His stomach is concave, the lines of his hipbones and shoulders stick out painfully. His reflection is horrid to look at, so he avoids doing so. 

He fed from Sherlock. Twice, now. 

It shows a deep lack of character, that he put his lips on Sherlock’s neck, hurt him, and did nothing but revel in the sensuality of it. That he smelled the deep scent of Sherlock’s skin, felt the smooth, lush feeling of it under his tongue, swallowed gulps of Sherlock’s warm blood... and felt nothing but rapture. 

Mycroft’s heady, now. Full of longing that he is unable to separate from need. His flesh is distracted, lit up with the hazy memory of it. The rise and fall of Sherlock’s shoulders as he breathed. Ached. Cried out. 

After feeding the first time Mycroft managed to get to the bathroom before he desperately pulled himself off and came. The second time Mycroft just made it to the hallway before he opened his trousers and... his stomach contracts hotly even thinking about it. It is the greatest rush his body has ever known. Such strength, such depth of need. 

He’s longing for Sherlock’s blood constantly now. His presence. Mycroft cannot rest without Sherlock near. Without knowing that he is whole, while it wasn’t any healthier for Sherlock than a drug would be. The shot of adrenalin it gave him is extremely addictive. 

But Mycroft did it anyway.

It’s not beautiful. People do not do this to those they care for. And the truth is, of course... 

He’s already hungry again.

 

-

 

Sherlock only comes by once a week. Because he understands the wisdom of waiting, Mycroft does not know. He has to admit to both relief - Mycroft is, still, not certain how much temptation he can resist – and frustration, because he wants Sherlock close by. 

The week seems endless, but the next Friday night, Sherlock shows up again. A burst of fresh air, a glimmer of clear eyes, a sharp smile. 

Sherlock knows very well what his presence does to him. 

Sherlock doesn’t speak, he just undresses. He takes off his shirt with fast, nimble fingers, and reveals his smooth, pale skin. His neck, bared. Last week’s bruises haven’t even healed completely, but yet Mycroft responds to it. His whole body wakes, his teeth ache in his jaw with a now familiar, sweet pressure, and grow. 

Mycroft is aware of how perverted this is. How stuck in his deepest, darkest desires he must be, to desire it. 

How it pulls him in, this. The vision of Sherlock, bared for him. Waiting to be _sampled_. 

Mycroft stands, and walks to stand behind Sherlock again with a feeling as if every step brings him closer to nirvana. He can feel his own heart beating faster. His hands sweat. A subtle chill goes through him, and Mycroft does not know why he ever assumed that feeding would be at all polite, or controllable. It is no different from an animal making a kill. 

Or furiously mating afterwards. 

Mycroft leans over Sherlock’s shoulder, ready to indulge. So very weak, so corrupt, so decadently selfish. Mycroft could not stop himself if he wanted to. 

And Sherlock turns his head, looks at him from over his shoulder, and says, “Come _on_.” 

Mycroft would laugh at Sherlock’s enthusiasm. Or cry at the truth of it - the urgency of this desire. But what he does is lean down. Smell Sherlock’s skin, the hint of sweat. And lick it, slowly. 

It’s the most erotic thing that Mycroft has ever done, to find the flutter of Sherlock’s heartbeat with his tongue. To locate the artery, to feel its subtle throb underneath his sensitive lips. To hesitate, balance on the edge of taking. And then _bite_ , taste the bright burst of hot blood. 

The first time he fed after all those months, it felt like he was being burned from the inside out, like swallowing too hot milk in fast gulps. Now, it is a lingering heat that spreads from his throat, to his chest and stomach. It feels deep. Right. 

Mycroft presses his mouth over the artery and feels the blood spurt deep into his throat. He swallows urgently. It fills his mouth at a rate he can barely keep up with. Like he might drown in it.

He had been terrified of taking too much. Of stopping, only to see Sherlock dead under his mouth, sucked dry. Now, he relishes it. Mycroft can hear Sherlock’s moans and sighs, and knows that Sherlock loves this, too. That together, they are reaching something unattainable. Outside of nature. Outside of convention, and morality. 

Sherlock’s hand drifts between his legs while Mycroft feeds. Mycroft can understand his need much more than Sherlock knows – Mycroft’s cock, too, fills and hardens and throbs with blood. But it cannot be like this. It should not be. 

Mycroft blindly pulls Sherlock’s arm away from where Sherlock was touching himself. _No, not yet._

Sherlock, unexpectedly, moans at it. 

Mycroft holds Sherlock’s arms between both their bodies, keeps him there, and Sherlock doesn’t struggle at all as Mycroft thought he might. Instead, Sherlock leans back into him. He _enjoys_ this. Mycroft feels a sudden flush at the thought. 

Mycroft drinks, stuck between the overwhelming wave of Sherlock’s skin, so near, and his blood, pooling in his mouth. 

He doesn’t realise what Sherlock’s fingers, pressed between them, are doing until they stroke his erection through his trousers. It’s only a small movement. Mycroft moves his hips into Sherlock’s hand just to make the tickle stop, the rising burn of arousal, but Sherlock presses back against him. 

Mycroft sucks extra hard. _No, Sherlock._

Sherlock shudders. Then does it again, traces his fingers against him. 

Sherlock moves his hips, too, and it’s a desperate moving, twitching, rocking. Mycroft is drinking, and this, he can feel himself get close to orgasm from it alone. Mycroft pushes Sherlock forward, forgetting how strong he is, now, how he could lift him up if he would want to, and thuds him to the wall. 

Mycroft holds both of Sherlock’s wrists, keeps him there, and drinks, wildly. Sucks, while Sherlock bucks under him, and groans. 

After a moment more, temptation, Mycroft forces himself to pull his teeth out. _No._ He’s breathing hard, on the edge himself. 

There is blood spurting and dripping over Sherlock’s skin in dark drops. Mycroft licks Sherlock’s wound where he bit until it closes, and when it’s done, Mycroft stills, and lets go of Sherlock’s hands. 

Sherlock clumsily unzips his trousers, pushes his pants down, and his arm moves back and forth as the scent of him fills the air. 

So close. So warm. 

Mycroft tries hard not to move closer to Sherlock, to rub against him and come like this, even though his whole self is pulsing with the desire to do so. Sherlock deserves this orgasm. Just as much as Mycroft does not deserve to hear him like this. 

Sherlock reaches back, and finds Mycroft’s upper leg. He, for some reason, tries to touch him. Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s arm again, and twists it. “ _No_ , Sherlock.” His voice sounds raw. 

Sherlock groans. He wanted that, Mycroft realises, Sherlock did it on purpose. So Mycroft gives it to him, he pushes Sherlock closer to the wall. Says into his ear, “You can’t.” 

Mycroft does not thrust to Sherlock’s arse but it’s a close thing. 

Sherlock’s hand speeds up, the scent all over the air, in Mycroft’s nose, on Mycroft’s lips as he inhales. It’s nearly as good as coming himself. And suddenly, he can’t wait, he can’t… do this. 

Mycroft lets go. 

Sherlock holds on to the wall, and Mycroft opens his own trousers, fast. His hand on himself is stunning, impossibly good. 

And Sherlock... turns. He looks hazy and gorgeous, covered in blood, sank against the wall, his cock in his hand. Their eyes meet as Sherlock shudders, and comes. 

Mycroft can’t stop himself. The sight, the _smell_ , he squeezes his cock, and he follows. Comes in a rush. Helpless. 

Sherlock smiles weakly. His eyes shine. 

Mycroft tries not to feel the waves of bright pleasure still flowing through him. He breathes, instead. Then puts an arm under Sherlock’s, ignores how great the physical contact feels, how all of him revels in it, and hauls Sherlock to the sofa. Mycroft lowers Sherlock onto it. And then leaves as fast as he can. 

Sherlock’s blood is pumping through him. Mycroft’s whole body feels heated and flushed, near-burning with blood. Shame. 

Mycroft finds himself in the bathroom, cleaning up with shaking hands. He attempts to slip into a veneer of civility while being aware that he will never be civil again, after this. 

Nor human. 

And Sherlock... Mycroft cannot desire anything else, can’t think of anyone else. It’s all Sherlock, and the next time he’ll take him. Or the time after that. Eventually, Mycroft won’t be able to stop himself, and he knows it. The thought is disturbing. Immense. 

Arousing. 

When Mycroft dares to go back, Sherlock is asleep on the sofa, still covered in blood. From afar, it looks like deep red paint all over his neck and chest. 

Sherlock looks so fragile. So young.

And Mycroft sees himself for who he is, now. He is a thing that takes, selfishly grabs and ingests. He eats and mauls and claims the thing he loves the most. 

He should have starved, instead. 

He should have killed himself. 

And that Mycroft didn’t, that he took this instead... that is the deep, dark truth of him - Mycroft did want to live. He did destroy everything, just to claw his way out of the hunger. He did want Sherlock. 

He is that monster.

 

-

 

Sherlock has not used any hard drugs since they first started this, five and a half weeks ago. 

He self-medicates to such a degree that Mycroft would not consider him to be clean, exactly. And it’s hardly progress to replace one dangerous and potentially life-threatening habit with another, but Mycroft can’t help but feel some hope at it, regardless. 

And then Sherlock comes by at two in the morning. 

Mycroft wakes when he hears the sound of the alarm being disabled by Sherlock’s code. He sits up on his bed, grabs a dressing gown, and hurries downstairs, already certain that something is very wrong. That Sherlock has come to tell him that something happened, that…

Sherlock is in the hallway. He is wet, rained upon, looking horribly pale. 

Sherlock looks up at him, and says, “Feed on me.”

“No, not tonight.” It’s only been three days since the last time. Mycroft feels a stab of worry, the only reason they can manage this is that there’s a clear pattern, more would be unsafe. Sherlock should not lose that much blood this often. 

Sherlock shakes his head. He looks manic, his steps grand as he walks closer. “Mycroft!” 

Is he high? Mycroft tries to smell him, but all he gets is outside scents, rain and greenery, damp stone and fungus, cigarette smoke and desperation. 

Mycroft says, hesitantly, thinking it bizarre that he should make a promise of this now, “On Friday. You know that.” 

Sherlock looks at him with frantic, red-rimmed eyes. “I need it. Now. _Please._ ”

It’s clear what’s wrong with Sherlock, Mycroft has seen him like this often enough. He sighs. “What did you take?” 

Sherlock’s hands ball, and he shifts on his feet. “Nothing.” 

“Sherlock...” Mycroft doesn’t believe him and they both know it. 

Sherlock looks down, “…yet.”

Ah. 

Mycroft steps close, puts a hand on Sherlock’s jaw, tilts his face towards him, and checks his pupils. It’s true that he isn’t high yet. But Sherlock smells like stress, up close, like annoyance, like something prickly and uneasy. 

Mycroft lowers his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, and tries to make his voice sound calm, careful not to aggravate Sherlock any further, “Whatever happened, we can deal with it.” 

It does not work. Sherlock pulls away from his grip, and starts pacing. “Nothing happened! Life happened!” Sherlock turns, and glares at him, “You always think there’s a cause. Something to _fix_ , well, there’s nothing.” Sherlock runs his hands through his hair. “Nothing!” 

Mycroft tries to remain composed, for both of their sakes. “Sherlock...” 

Sherlock says, speaking fast, “I bought heroin, it’s in my pocket.”

Mycroft thinks through possible responses - relief that Sherlock came here for help instead of getting high. Praise that he did. Or anger, that he was tempted, and bought it in the first place? Should he be stern, or forgiving? What Mycroft truly wants is for the heroin to be gone, away from Sherlock, unable to harm him or tempt him, so he says, “Give it to me.”

Sherlock walks forward, quickly, he comes closer until they’re nearly chest to chest, and then says, “If you feed on me.”

It’s unbearable. Mycroft wants to lean down and _have_ him. He can feel the satisfying ache, familiar now, in his jaw. Mycroft’s teeth appear, ready to feed. 

Sherlock grins. 

Mycroft eyes Sherlock, and considers him. After all, Mycroft understands about need, now. Unbearably much. He decides, “Give me the heroin.”

Sherlock breathes out. He takes a step back, digs in his pocket, and then hands over a small plastic bag. 

Mycroft, faintly aware that he has never handled heroin in his life, puts it in his dressing gown pocket. “Thank you.” 

“Hm.” Sherlock looks at him expectantly. 

Mycroft himself is not certain whether he should fulfil his promise. It’s too soon. Unhealthy. But Sherlock needed something, and he came here, and Mycroft is glad. The truth is that he’s so very, very glad that Sherlock chose this over the alternative. 

So Mycroft says, gently, “Come.” 

They go to the library, and Sherlock strips with shaking hands that Mycroft wants to cover with his own. Mycroft wants to tell him that it will be all right. That every single demon that Sherlock is battling right now is survivable, and that they will fight it together. But he knows that what he needs to do. Offer Sherlock more. Trade need for need, want for want, and be the better option.

“Lie down.” 

Sherlock does it. He sinks down on the sofa without questioning why at all, and looks up. He makes a sorry shape. Skinny. Pale. 

Mycroft sits down on his knees next to the sofa. It feels like a prayer of some sort, to an unknown deity. _Please, let me have some restraint._

It’s an idle hope. 

Mycroft leans in and smells Sherlock. He can sense the barely suppressed tension and anger in Sherlock’s body, and wants to do nothing but to take it away. To make him feel happy, for a while. Mycroft licks his neck, finds the thud of Sherlock’s carotid artery with his tongue, and then bites down with a sense of love. For Sherlock. 

Mycroft bites, and the whole world tilts out of focus. 

Sherlock’s blood runs, spurts, and Mycroft lets it fill his mouth greedily. Swallows like a ravenous man. 

Mycroft glimpses Sherlock reaching between his legs, and pulling his cock out, but Mycroft does not stop him. Sherlock can take all the pleasure he wants. 

Mycroft can smell Sherlock’s arousal filling his nose, along with the blood in his mouth. Sherlock twitches under him. It tastes like sex. It smells like it. It is all Mycroft has ever wanted.

Sherlock sighs, “Mycroft...” And Mycroft cannot reply, but he knows what he means. It is amazing. They should always do this. Always. Mycroft wants to drink endlessly, but it’s only been three days. He remembers that, even like this. 

And, with a great effort, pulls his teeth out as soon as he can feel the first brush of being full. The blood runs over Sherlock’s neck, and Mycroft licks it up eagerly, carefully laps at his skin.

Sherlock shudders. “Hmm...” 

Mycroft, the blood still heavy on his lips and tongue, opens his dressing gown. He knew this would happen, eventually. 

He wants it to. 

He pushes his pyjama bottoms down, and touches himself. 

Mycroft matches his movements to Sherlock’s and it is as if they are one, as if they move, and pulse, and _need_ together. 

Sherlock’s eyes are glassy, his lips parted. There is a drop of blood lazily rolling over his neck to pool in the hollow of his collarbone. Mycroft sees it, leans close, and licks a long, decadent stripe from Sherlock’s collarbone to the wound at his neck, that still tastes amazing, like metal and heat. Mycroft tongues it, and Sherlock makes a sound, a high whine, “Aaah!”

Mycroft breathes out, and thrusts into his hand. 

Mycroft sees Sherlock’s hand move, he can hear Sherlock’s wet breaths, and Mycroft can taste everything Sherlock is in the back of his throat. He already holds his life in his arms every time they do this, so it seems not much more, to reach out. Mycroft does. 

Their fingers tangle briefly, and Mycroft wraps a hand over Sherlock’s cock himself. 

The skin feels smooth. Mycroft rubs his thumb over the head, and Sherlock pushes his hips forwards. “Aaah!”

“Shhh,” Mycroft says, wanting to comfort. 

But there is nothing quiet or mild about it. Sherlock is shaking under his touch. Sherlock’s eyes are wide, and his chest rises and falls fast. His hips push to his hand, and Mycroft tightens his fingers. Sherlock sobs, weakly. 

Mycroft slowly rubs his thumb over the head, again and again, until Sherlock’s hand claws at his arm. “Please!”

Mycroft speeds his hand up. It only takes a couple of pulls before Sherlock cries out, and spills. Wet and warm and slick over his hand. 

The smell is everywhere now. Mycroft lets go, and licks his hand clean. The taste is bitter, it prickles all of his senses. Remains on his tongue. Mycroft brings his hand down, and moves it on himself, feeling as if his whole body is sensitised to the point of orgasm, as if all of him will tear apart. 

Mycroft looks at Sherlock, helpless in this, and sees it reflected in his expression. 

Sherlock smiles, faintly. 

Mycroft crawls on the sofa in reply, over Sherlock. He presses his lips to Sherlock’s neck again, smells and licks and laps the blood, mine, _mine_. Sherlock’s hand touches his cock, and Mycroft thrusts into Sherlock’s grip. Mycroft groans, his voice a thing gone wild, nothing like him at all, and he comes. Sherlock’s hand on him, licking Sherlock’s blood. 

Gloriously. 

Mycroft sinks down. 

He only stays there a moment before he rolls away, but Sherlock has closed his eyes. Mycroft carefully listens for his heartbeat, steady, and then stands, and pulls his pyjama bottoms back up. His head is spinning. 

Mycroft gets rid of the drugs first. He opens the bag, and empties it in the bathroom sink. 

Then washes his face. Blood swirls down the drain in red clouds along with the heroin, and Mycroft can’t look in the mirror. He can’t see himself and know what he did. He’s still shaking.

Mycroft goes back to Sherlock within minutes. He shouldn’t leave him. He can’t.

Sherlock’s not asleep, as Mycroft expected, instead he sits upright on the sofa, his head bent, arms wrapped around his middle. 

Mycroft wonders if he should tell him to never come back. Say that they will ruin each other. That they already have. But it sounds hollow, even in his own mind. What is there possibly to say, still, after this?

After a moment, Sherlock looks up, and says, hoarsely, “Can I stay here tonight?”

And Mycroft’s heart breaks. Sherlock never needs to leave again, if he doesn’t want to. “Yes.”

Mycroft has to help him on the stairs. He leads Sherlock to his already slept-in bed. Mycroft lifts the covers, and crawls in next to Sherlock. Turns off the light. 

Mycroft can hear Sherlock’s blood thrumming inside of him. He can still taste him. 

Sherlock rolls close, and Mycroft pulls him in, and folds his arms around him. Holds Sherlock’s warm body. Safe. 

And when Sherlock turns his face, and kisses him on the mouth, it feels right. It tastes like blood. Addiction. Something that should never have been true, between them. But Mycroft does not regret being brought back, anymore. 

He’ll always be here, now. For Sherlock. 

Forever.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
